


Post

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Break Up, Closeted Character, Complicated Relationships, Denial of Feelings, F/F, F/M, Lesbian Character, Post-Break Up, Sexuality Crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 10:01:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20619191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Angua and Carrot have finally broken up.Angua's still trying to work out what happens now.





	Post

**Author's Note:**

> There's a mention of underage sex, but only in a joking exchange making fun of Sally for looking young, nothing in-depth.

Angua rolled over in bed, pressing her face into the pillow, and mumbled, “Carrot, the curtains.” She pressed her face as tightly against the pillow as she could, her voice thickly muffled by the down – they were special feathers, many times washed before they were made into cushion stuffing, specially formulated for those with sensitive noses. The century brought new boons for werewolves with every year that passed.

Light continued to stream in from the window, golden brightness catching at her hair, warming her shoulders, and shining harsh through her eyelids, no matter how tightly she closed them.

“_Carrot_,” she said plaintively. It had been a long night shift, and she’d gotten home two or three hours later than she’d expected to, falling right to bed, forgetting to close the curtains. She did that, sometimes, and Carrot used to drag them shut – he never seemed to have the same problems Angua had when she was lacking sleep, never was quite as grumpy. He used to…

Used to.

Angua turned her head, looking at the pillow, shocked awake by the sudden nauseating recollection. Carrot’s scent still lingered on the pillow beside her, but it was old, several days old. He didn’t stay here anymore – he was back staying at Mrs Palm’s until he found lodgings somewhere else.

Groggily, she moved to yank the curtains shut, turning her face away from the hot glare of the summer brightness as she dragged them closed, and for a long moment she stood stockstill in the silent almost-darkness, not looking at the cracks where the light peeked through.

No more Carrot.

She was alone now.

Leaning back toward the bed, she dropped heavily onto the bed, which was formed of a hard leather block – comfortable enough for her, but Carrot had complained, now and then, that it was too soft, too used as he was to sleeping on rock. Angua rolled over, dragging the pillow against her chest and curling around it.

It had been two days now.

Two days since she’d said, “Do you actually _care_, Carrot?”

They’d been out on patrol together, and she’d been in a bad mood because the Ankh-Morpork summer was making the stench come right off the surface of the river, the scum drying and caking on top. It gave her a headache, when the stink was so strong on the air, making her head spin as she tried her best to concentrate, and all she’d wanted to do was get a new sofa. She’d wanted to get a new sofa for _two years_.

“Do you want to come with?” she’d asked, because they weren’t living together, yet, he’d just been staying over a few nights a week…

“Yes,” he’d said, glancing up from the paperwork he’d been working on in the bullpen, but then he’d hesitated, and said, “could we go in a few weeks?”

“A few weeks, sure,” Angua had said.

A few _years_. Every time she’d asked, he’d excused his way out of it, and she’d tried to work herself up into going on her own, because it was _her_ flat, not his, but they shared it together, and she wanted him to _like_ whatever she picked, because he lived there too, it’d be his sofa too.

“I want to get this sofa,” she’d said. “We’ve been putting it off for ages, Carrot, and ours is raggedy as anything, and I want something new.”

“This week?” Carrot had asked. “I have a lot of—”

“It won’t take longer than a few hours, Carrot!” Angua had snapped. “Probably less than one!”

“Yeah, but—”

“Do you even _care_? Do you actually _care_, Carrot?”

“About the sofa?”

“About anything!”

It had been the dumb silence that had cut. Not the look on his face that he always got when she got irritated with him, the soft puppy look of complete bafflement, even though when it was something that had come up time and again before; not the way his hands had settled loosely against the desktop, his pen dripping onto his palm; not the way his mouth had fallen open, or the way that his eyes were wide. It was the fact that he wasn’t _saying_ anything, like he couldn’t think of anything to say, like he wasn’t _bothering_ to think of anything to say.

“Of course I do,” he’d said, after too long of a pause. “I care about lots of things, I care about Ankh-Morpork, and the city, and _you_, Angua.”

“Do you?” she’d demanded, aware that she sounded hysterical, aware of how harsh and high-pitched her voice went, with the barest bit of growl in it. It was a _whine_, not a growl – it was desperate, not angry. “Do you care? Would you even notice, if we broke up tomorrow? You don’t want to get a new sofa, you don’t want to talk about new bedsheets, you don’t want to go out to dinner at that new restaurant because it’s too far out of town. You don’t want to get married—”

“_You_ don’t want to get married!”

“But you never mentioned it!” Angua retorted, aware of the way she was on the verge of tears, her head spinning. “You never even _asked_, not once, if I ever thought about it, if I ever… And I don’t think you’ve _ever_ initiated sex. Do you actually find me attractive, Carrot?”

“I think so,” Carrot had said, too casually, not sounding upset enough, angry enough, defensive enough. He’d just sounded quietly confused, like he always did, and it made her want to scream. “I mean, you’re attracted to me, aren’t you?”

Angua groaned into her pillow, squeezing it tightly.

It took a while to get back to sleep, but she managed it, and when she finally woke up, it was late in the afternoon. The light coming in from the window had softened a bit, some clouds outside blocking the more intense glare, and Angua groaned as she pulled herself out of bed, rubbing hard at her eyes.

She felt sick.

Carrot had taken his books; he’d taken his armour, his clothes, his polish, his boots. There wasn’t actually anything of Carrot left in the flat at all, except for his scent, lingering especially on the old sofa, and the desk he’d bought. He’d bought the desk, and he’d never even _thought_ about the sofa, not until Angua had come home and seen it, and—

_I mean, you’re attracted to me, aren’t you?_

She’d been silent, then. Of course she was attracted to him, she wanted to say – he was tall and handsome and broad-shouldered and _good_ and kind. Everyone was attracted to people like that, and what did it mean to be attracted to someone, anyway? People always talked about sparks, but she’d never felt sparks with _any_ man she’d been with, only wanting to have sex, and that was normal.

And Carrot was good in bed, and he didn’t snore, and he didn’t hold her when she slept – some men liked to do that, and she’d never enjoyed it, never been able to sleep with someone holding her down.

There was a knock on the door, and still in just her chemise and her underwear, Angua groaned, pressing her face to the column in the centre of her living room. “Go _away_, Washpot, you know I’m not interested!”

“It’s not Visit, dickhead,” came the retort, and Angua padded to the door, pulling it open.

Sally was dressed in a day suit, a leather jacket replacing the blazer that normally went with something like that, and when she saw Angua, her gaze immediately went from Angua’s face to her chest, and then lower. Angua felt a hot flush run down her body, and she shoved Sally in the shoulder.

“Eyes up here!” she snapped.

“They only go up so high, I’m half your height,” Sally said, and Angua grabbed her chin before she could look at Angua’s tits again, and Sally grinned, showing her teeth. She kept her gaze on Angua’s, and said, “You’ve got two days off.”

“I know that,” Angua said. “I see the same roster you do, Sally.”

“Shit, seriously? I thought it was just me,” Sally said. “Can I come in?”

“Are you going to stare at my arse when I turn around?”

“I won’t look if you let me touch,” Sally said, and Angua, to her own surprise, laughed. It felt like the first time she’d laughed in weeks, and she felt herself relax, a little bit of the tension going out of her body.

It was different, when Sally looked at Angua than when a man did it – Sally was always complimentary, and her flirtation with women never felt lecherous, somehow, never felt like she was trying to _take_ anything, or own anything. It was… playful. And that was even for a vampire, even though vampires could be…

“No touching,” Angua said.

“So I can look?”

“I’m going to put on clothes,” said Angua.

“Oh, don’t go to the effort on my account,” Sally said, but when Angua walked out to grab some trousers and a blouse, she heard Sally pushing the door closed, and she heard the pour of water into the kettle as she set it on the stove. “Everyone says you’re a heartbreaking bitch.”

“Who’s everyone?” Angua asked, pulling her blouse over her head. The nausea swelled back in her stomach.

“Oh, you know,” Sally said. “Twats. S’not like Carrot’s really heartbroken, anyway, and he said you two had sort of parted ways on mutual terms, like.”

“He said that because he thought it’d make people hate me less,” Angua muttered. “Do you hate me?”

“Yeah,” Sally said. “But not because of Carrot. Just because of basic racial tensions, you know, plus our natural enmity as upper class women, or whatever.”

“Shut up,” Angua said, and she listened to Sally’s bark-like laugh echo from the kitchen, smiling slightly as she grabbed socks. “What are you here for, anyway?”

“I want to go to that furniture shop by the big toy place. I want a new bedside table. I was sleeping with a girl last week and she broke the damned thing.”

Angua sniggered, dragging on her socks. “What, she couldn’t stay on your sofa?”

“What, for sex?” Sally asked, and Angua felt herself freeze. “_Bit_ esoteric, even for a handsome vampire in leather boots, no?”

“You had sex with her?” Angua asked, leaning in through the kitchen doorway, and she stared at Sally, who was craning to grab mugs down from the top shelves, and wasn’t even close to reaching. “A woman?”

Sally glanced back at her, tilting her head, and as Angua moved past her to grab down the mugs, Sally said, “Well, yeah. I mean, sorry, Angua, didn’t know you were fussy about the one night stands.”

“No, I just…” Angua felt hot all over again. She buttoned her blouse up once she’d handed over the mugs, and she was aware of the scent of Sally filling her nostrils – the smell of the leather she wore, the smell of _vampire_, a sweet smell of strawberries and raspberries lingering on her mouth, from flavoured lip gloss, Angua thought, but Sally didn’t wear that sort of thing. Probably from a girl. A girl that she slept with.

Angua knew, realistically, that there were women in Ankh-Morpork that did that kind of thing. She’d known Sally flirted, and laughed, but she’d never thought it was… She’d thought it was _play_.

Was Sally like that, with men?

Angua wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure if she was anything with men: Sally never seemed to notice them.

“Didn’t know you had sex,” Angua said. Her mouth was dry: her voice was a bit hoarse. “You look about fourteen, you know, so—”

“Well, that’s when I started,” Sally said.

“Not at twelve? Amateur.”

“Is that in dog years?”

Angua exhaled, trying to stop herself from laughing, and she watched as Sally grabbed the tea from its jar, shaking a bit of it into the mugs. Her gaze lingered on Sally’s hands, which were pale and strong and scarred in places, calloused and muscled from playing the cello. They were friends, she and Sally, now. Angua wasn’t sure she should admit it, wasn’t sure she liked it, but Sally invited herself around all the time, made tea, dragged Angua out…

It was nice. Sally always took the initiative, but it wasn’t just stuff _she_ liked. A few months back she’d dragged Angua along to an undead art exhibition, and Angua had expected to hate it, but it had been _amazing_, it had really made her feel things… She always felt like she had to lead the way with Carrot, when it was something outside of work. Sally and Cheery, they were both more willing to take the lead – not all the time, not for everything, but most of the time, and Angua liked that, liked not having to be in charge.

She hated being in charge.

“Do you think I was wrong,” Angua said, “to break it off?”

“To be honest, I don’t know why you didn’t do it sooner,” Sally murmured. “He always seemed to stress you out.”

“Did he?” Angua asked.

“You always seemed wound tight when you tried to talk to him about anything except work,” Sally said. “That’s all. Why? Do you think you made a mistake?”

“I don’t think he was ever attracted to me,” Angua blurted out.

“Okay,” Sally said.

“I don’t know if I was attracted to him,” Angua added, desperately.

“Alright,” Sally said.

Sally pressed the mug of tea into Angua’s hands, and Angua sipped from it without even thinking. It wasn’t too hot – Sally never made the water too hot when she made tea. Angua kept sipping, even though the tea was strong, and Sally looked up at her, her expression neutral. She didn’t look that young, really. She looked about sixteen, when you first looked at her, but when you saw the way she held herself, you saw the age in her eyes, in the way she held herself.

Vampires had that sort of ease – _bearing_, it was, it was bearing.

“I’ve wanted to get a new sofa,” Angua said. “For two years. He always put it off. That’s why we broke up – that sounds stupid, doesn’t it? That we broke up over a sofa?”

“Not really,” Sally said. “You need a new sofa. That thing’s ratty as fuck.”

“Thank you,” Angua said. She was slumped, leaning hard against the counter.

“You look dead,” Sally said.

“Ironic coming from you.”

Sally looked up at her, and then her fingers brushed against the edge of Angua’s elbow, gently touching it through the blouse. Her fingers were cold, and slightly stiff.

“You alright?” she asked.

“I want a new sofa,” Angua said. “Today.”

“Okay,” Sally said, with no hesitation, no pause, no uncertainty. “We’ll go.”

Angua threw her arms around Sally’s neck, squeezing her so tightly she felt the lack of give in Sally’s body, felt how cold she was, and Sally let out a low _oof_ of noise, but she hugged Angua in return, one hand loosely settling on Angua’s lower back.

“Are you going to start crying?” she asked. Her voice was muffled against Angua’s chest. She turned her head slightly.

“Did you put your face into my tits on purpose?”

“You actually put my face here,” Sally said. “I _told_ you, I’m only so tall.”

“Will you help me pick a sofa?”

“No,” Sally said. “But I’ll make wry commentary from the sidelines and loudly judge your taste. That work for you?”

“Yes,” Angua said. “That’s fine.”

Sally laughed, softly, and patted Angua’s hip. Angua was hyperaware of the ghost of Sally’s hand on the flesh there. Sally, who didn’t just flirt with women because it was funny – Sally, who _slept_ with women, who _liked_ women, who found women attractive. She found Angua attractive: she’d said so. Was it personal? Was she personally attracted to Angua, or was it just in theory, Angua was attractive, what…?

“Are you just gonna keep my face here,” Sally said to Angua’s nipple, “or are you going to let me go?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“No rush,” Sally said, but when she breathed hot on Angua’s breast through the fabric of her blouse, Angua shouted and laughed, kicking her off, and stumbled back and away from Sally’s mouth. It felt easy to be around Sally.

“What does it feel like, to be attracted to someone?” Angua asked.

Sally blinked.

“Sofa first,” she said. “We’ll discuss _that_ question over wine.”

“Alright,” Angua murmured, exhaling her relief. Sally was in charge – Angua… Angua hated being in charge.

Sally led the way toward the door. 


End file.
